Ripper's Excuse
by Lady Kellyn
Summary: Short, pre-Philosopher's Stone fanfic. Based on a quote from HP3: "On her last visit...Harry had trodden on the tail of her favorite dog. Ripper had chased Harry out into the garden and up a tree, and Aunt Marge had refused to call him off until.."


_Please excuse the shortness._

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**Ripper's Excuse**

It was that time of year again. Uncle Vernon had just gone to pick up Aunt Marge from the train station. She would come with her favorite dog, Ripper, to ruin Harry's entire week with her presence. Harry had made himself a calendar to count down days of Aunt Marge's stay.

He had just over an hour to prepare himself for his evil aunt. The next week would take a lot of self control to get through, for Aunt Marge adored insulting anything about Harry she could possible find fault with: his character, his runty build, his no-good father, his nasty, common name, and the fact that he wasn't really a Dursley. But Harry had trained himself not to listen—he recited poems in his head that he found in a poetry book (which stood, unused, on Dudley's bookshelf in the room he used to store broken things and books).

Harry had just started up the stairs when Dudley waddled in. He smirked at Harry, causing a sick feeling to rise in the pit of Harry's stomach.

"I can't wait till Auntie Marge gets here!" he gloated. "She promised me a robot, as a late birthday present. Say, wasn't it your tenth birthday last week? Anyway, I wonder what she brought you this time, ha ha!"

On her last visit, Aunt Marge had brought Dudley a new computer game, and for Harry, she had a pack of toothpicks. "For the table, not for you," she had informed him.

Harry ignored Dudley's comment and went upstairs, feeling gloomier with every step. When he reached the room, he wished for the hundredth time that it were his. His cupboard was cramped, and the light often didn't work. And every time he moved, he was showered with the spiders that lived in cracks and corners. He sighed, took the book off of the shelf, and went back downstairs. He sat down, and started reading a poem entitled "The Ballad of Sir Nicholas". It was vaguely interesting—about a man who had been executed, but the axe they wanted to cut his head off with wasn't sharp enough, and it took forty-five tries until he died.

An hour later, he heard Uncle Vernon's car pulling into the driveway. Seconds later, the door banged open, and Aunt Marge's overlarge physique filled the doorway. "Where's my little Duddykins?" she boomed. "Auntie Marge wants a big hug!"

She turned on Harry, fixing him with her cold glare. "You! Carry my bag upstairs!" she barked. So Harry, as usual, was forced to carry her enormous, bulging bag up to the guest room, taking as much time as he could. When he got back down, he saw that the Dursleys had adjourned to the parlor. "Here. You're to give one to Ripper every day," she grunted, shoving a small box of dog biscuits into Harry's hands. Hearing his name, Ripper the bulldog glanced up, noticed Harry, and started growling. Harry slowly sat down so as not to arouse Ripper's anger. There followed a long, boring conversation; Uncle Vernon told her the latest news about his company, which made drills; Aunt Petunia inquired about the dogs, flinching as Ripper drooled on her carpet, and Dudley droned on about his dream of becoming a pro wrestler. ("That's my Dudders!" exclaimed his aunt.)

Finally, they had dinner, and Aunt Marge launched a loud tirade against Harry's character. This time, it was his way of managing to say everything rudely. ("Oh, I knew from the beginning that the boy was no good, Vernon. You ought to send him to a school that'll knock some manners into him.")

Harry managed to get through the entire meal without having to say something even once, but just in case, he decided to quietly leave for his cupboard. He tiptoed as quickly as he could from the table. All of a sudden, he heard a yelp—he had just stepped on Ripper's paw! He bolted out of the room and into the yard, knowing that Ripper the dog was hot on his heels. He could almost feel the canine's hot breath on his hand as he sprinted.

He had to reach a tree! Almost there! Yes! He was safe. Ripper could bark and snap all he wanted, but he wouldn't reach Harry. This gave Harry time to catch his breath.

Ripper had always despised Harry, from the moment he had set his eyes on him. Every time Aunt Marge visited, Harry was forced to avoid Ripper as much as possible lest he anger the dog. Ripper had been searching for an excuse to do this for years, and now it had come.

Minutes passed. _That's odd,_ thought Harry, _why doesn't Aunt Marge come out? Ripper won't stop until she makes him._

But Aunt Marge had no intention of calling out. After an hour, Ripper had stopped barking, but was pacing around the tree, just waiting for Harry to dare try to come down. Another hour, two hours, Ripper had lain down, but Harry knew better than to try to escape from the prison of his tree.

It must have been eleven o'clock when Harry, driven by tiredness and his stiff limbs, decided to risk it. But no sooner had he move his leg than Ripper leaped up and started barking and snapping again. And he didn't stop guarding the tree until past midnight, when Aunt Marge finally called him off so that Harry wouldn't be noticed by the neighbors the next morning.

Harry never forgot those hours sitting in that tree, with seemingly no hope of ever escaping. He desperately hoped that it was true what people said about dogs having short memories. Harry shuddered—it was going to be a long week.

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